


you should take it as a compliment

by tamquams



Series: unless you wanna come along? [1]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, M/M, References to Drugs, Ronan Compliant Language, Underage Drinking, basically it's a litchfield party and we disregard the entire canon timeline, but for context adam and ronan's relationship is very late bllb/early trk-esque
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:15:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27484870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tamquams/pseuds/tamquams
Summary: After about half an hour of their stupid game of cat and mouse, Ronan realizes that he’s lost Adam in the crowd.
Relationships: Ronan Lynch/Adam Parrish
Series: unless you wanna come along? [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2014039
Comments: 28
Kudos: 187





	you should take it as a compliment

In Ronan’s defense, he’s really god damn hammered.

Which, yeah, okay, it’s not like that would hold up in a court of law or anything. Of course it’s true that he’s drunk — Ronan Lynch doesn’t lie, right? — but it isn’t the whole story. The whole story is that Ronan is drunk, and he wasn’t expecting Adam to be here, and Adam looks really good, and Ronan is so fucking in love with him that it _hurts_.

The whole story is that nobody knows that Ronan is in love with Adam, least of all Adam himself, and Ronan would very much like to keep it that way.

So, that’s why he’s floating from room to room at this stupid Litchfield party, avoiding Adam like the plague. Well, maybe _avoiding_ is the wrong word. _Orbiting_ might be closer. It’s like he and Adam are circling one another in large, elaborate ellipses, like they share this strange counterintuitive magnetic force that at once repels and attracts them. Adam takes a step forward, Ronan takes a step back, and vice versa. It has the ridiculous pageantry of a courting dance, except Ronan is too hammered to know if Adam’s even fully aware of it. A few times, he feels the weight of Adam’s gaze resting on his face or the back of his neck, but he never turns to meet Adam’s eyes. That would be too much, too dangerous, and Ronan usually doesn’t back down from a dare but he can’t let himself get caught up in this tonight. He takes a shot of something fruity, drinks two cups of something that makes the lining of his stomach burn, and after about half an hour of their stupid game of cat and mouse, Ronan realizes that he’s lost Adam in the crowd.

He should be happy about this. Wasn’t it literally his exact intention to escape Adam’s inquisitive eyes and sarcastic smirk? He’s succeeded now, he no longer has to worry about getting caught staring at Adam’s hands where they’re wrapped around a Solo cup, and yet the only thing that Ronan can really feel underneath the arhythmic thrum of a buzz in his veins is total, consuming disappointment. He should be relieved, he should continue the process of numbing himself through extreme alcohol consumption, but instead he scowls and looks over his shoulder, hoping against reason to catch sight of Adam’s stubborn cowlick somewhere in the crowd.

“Ronan!” a voice nearby slurs, and Ronan turns just in time to catch Gansey as he stumbles to a stop. He’s drunker than Ronan has ever seen him, which is saying something, but at least Gansey’s always been a pleasant drunk. Ronan can’t imagine a version of Gansey that _isn’t_ pleasant, honestly. He pats Ronan’s shoulder gratefully and says, grinning, “I didn’t think you were coming.”

Ronan drops a hand to each of Gansey’s shoulders — God, sometimes he forgets just how short Gansey is, the guy carries himself like a king but the top of his head can easily fit beneath Ronan’s chin when Ronan is slouching — and steadies him, instantly sobering a bit in the presence of such inebriation. “Neither did I,” he says truthfully, because attending the party had been a last-minute decision. “Dude, how much have you had?”

Gansey hums thoughtfully, rubbing his palm against his cheek. He looks alarmingly childlike, not at all like his usual proper, polished self. The air of naïveté and defenselessness about him reminds Ronan so strongly of Matthew that he has to swallow down the lump in his throat and physically restrain himself from pulling Gansey in for a hug. 

“Five?” Gansey guesses after several moments. He peeks at the contents of his cup like they’ll offer him any answers. He takes another drink, and Ronan kind of wants to rip the cup from his hands and cut him off for the night, but Gansey is a big boy. He isn’t Ronan’s responsibility. He pulls idly at the collar of his ridiculous salmon polo shirt. “Or maybe six?”

Ronan snorts, even though he doesn’t find it very funny. “Five or six _what_ , Gansey?” His voice is tinged with exasperation, but it’s mostly an act — an act completely lost on Gansey, who’s just blinking up at him like a lost puppy. “Shots? Cups? Snorts of cocaine?” 

Gansey laughs, but the sound is not extremely reassuring. “Cups,” he says, enunciating the single syllable more than is strictly necessary. “Although I did also take a few hits off Noah’s joint.” He leans in conspiratorially and whispers, “and by a few hits, I mean I smoked well over half of it.”

“Christ, Gans,” Ronan says with a frown. “Don’t you think you should slow down?” To his knowledge, Gansey’s never been properly crossfaded, and Ronan would never admit it but he’s worried about his friend. He places a hand high on Gansey’s back and attempts to lead him toward a couch, but Gansey pulls away with this stupid little smile like he’s got it all figured out.

“I’m fine,” he says with a sage shake of his head, sloshing something purple over the sides of his cup. It stains one of his hands, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “I’m gonna crash here tonight anyway, okay? Don’t worry about me.” He pats Ronan’s shoulder again with his clean hand and then disappears back into the party, leaving Ronan dumbfounded and more than a little bit troubled by their conversation.

When Ronan finally turns around again, Adam’s still nowhere to be seen, so he grabs himself another drink and downs it in one go. It’s pretty disgusting and does little to numb the growing distress he feels in his abdomen, but it does distract him for a second, which is about all that Ronan can ask for. He refills his cup and works his way into the next room, immediately scanning the haze of fruit-scented water vapor and harsh LED lighting for Parrish and coming up empty.

Before Ronan can work his way across the room, though, he’s intercepted again, this time by a much-less friendly face than Gansey; it’s Tad Carruthers, an annoying but relatively harmless classmate who is borderline obsessed with Adam. Ronan clenches his jaw as Carruthers steps into his path, but Tad’s clearly blazed out of his mind, and he holds his hands up in mock surrender.

“Lynch,” says Tad, eyes so heavy-lidded they’re practically closed. “You look tense, bro. You want a hit?” He holds out a lit joint, and it’s probably meant to be a kind gesture, but Ronan just wrinkles his nose in disgust. Yeah, like he wants to smoke with _Tad Carruthers_ of all people. He feels his hands curling into fists and then forces himself to stop and just shakes his head.

“Nah,” says Ronan as he sidesteps Tad and continues toward the door. He finally makes it to the hallway and cranes his head this way and that to get a good look at the front door, the stairwell, and finally the kitchen entryway —

Ronan catches sight of the back of Adam’s head just as it disappears into the kitchen.

There’s at least a dozen people between Ronan and the kitchen, but he’s a pro at knocking people out of his way when he has somewhere to be. He’s elbowed his way right to the end of the hall, he’s about three steps from the kitchen, and then suddenly Noah is there.

“Czerny,” Ronan all but growls, stopping himself from shoving the smaller boy at the last second. “You okay?”

Unfazed by Ronan’s characteristic grumpiness, Noah flashes him a lazy smile. He has definitely been lighting up too, probably right alongside Gansey and Cheng. “Ronan,” he says languidly, rolling his shoulders. A piece of white-blond hair flops in his face and he makes no move to push it back. “I thought you said you weren’t coming.”

Ronan is not in the mood to have this conversation again. “Changed my mind,” he says shortly, but he feels the tension in his shoulders lessen slightly even as he speaks. He’s got too much of a soft spot for Noah to stand here bitching at him, especially for something that isn’t his fault. “Are you okay, dude? Do you need anything?” Ronan isn’t much more sober than Noah is, really, but he has to offer anyway. His fraternal instincts really seem to be kicking in tonight. 

Noah’s smile just widens, crooked and charming and completely blissed out. “I’m great,” he says, the words falling from his lips like syrup. “I love you, bro.”

A blush creeps across Ronan’s cheeks, completely at odds with the deep scowl he aims at Noah. “Yeah, yeah,” he says gruffly, stepping around Noah and finally reaching the threshold of the kitchen. “Go to sleep, Czerny.” 

The kitchen is relatively empty, most people just slithering in and out in search of drinks and snacks. It’s colder than the rest of the house, uncomfortably so, with a dry but persistent chill drifting in from the glass door that opens out into the dark, scraggly yard.

The door is currently ajar, propped open with a cracked cinder block, and Ronan steps through it quietly. He blinks a few times to allow his eyes to adjust to the darkness, and for a few seconds he thinks that maybe he was wrong, maybe Adam doubled back through the house and Ronan just didn’t notice, but then he sees him, and a feeling of peace settles on Ronan’s shoulders.

Adam is lying on his back in the darkest part of the yard, more of a shadow than a solid body, and Ronan can just make out the glint of an unopened can of beer beside him in the dirt. Automatically, Ronan’s feet begin to carry him in that direction, and he pours the contents of his cup down his throat before stretching out beside Adam wordlessly.

Adam doesn’t react to Ronan joining him, so he probably heard him coming. That’s good, at least — Ronan hates accidentally sneaking up on Adam. Hates making him jump or flinch away. Ronan pillows his head in his hands and looks up at the night sky, wondering what has Adam so interested. Stars? Constellations? Ronan’s never really gotten the hype about space; it’s cool, but it’s also scary as hell when you think about it, and Ronan has enough cool-but-scary shit in his life already. He tries to identify a few constellations and then gives up and turns his head to look at Adam.

Adam’s already looking at him, his gaze unreadable. It’s pretty much impossible to make out the fine features of his face in this total lack of light, but that doesn’t stop Ronan from trying. He’s pretty sure he can just make out the slope of Adam’s nose when Adam says, without preamble, “Thought you were avoiding me.” He doesn’t sound accusatory or dejected, but Ronan knows better. Knows _him_ better.

“So what if I was?” Ronan says, mostly because he doesn’t lie but he doesn’t want to outright tell the truth, either. Also, just because he’s an asshole.

It was clearly the wrong thing to say, though, because Adam turns away then, directing his attention back to the night sky. He lets out a low, long breath and then says, resigned and obviously exhausted, “What do you _want_ , Lynch?”

It would be so easy to say _You, Adam_. It would be easier to get bitchy, to throw something bitter and ugly in Adam’s face and to walk away. It would be easiest to just reply _Nevermind, Parrish_ and stare drunkenly at the stars till he decides it’s time for him to go. Instead of doing any of these things, however, Ronan just swallows hard and says truthfully, without malice, “To talk to you.”

In the back of his throat, Adam makes a frustrated noise. “So _talk_ ,” he snaps, lifting an arm to run his hand through his hair. His voice is slightly softer when he says, “Just talk to me, for God’s sake.” Even sober, his words overlap, too tired and uncaring to hide his accent. _Talk_ is drawn out into two syllables and _God’s sake_ turns into _gossake_ and Ronan has never in his life been more in love than he is in this moment, which is so stupid that he wants nothing more than to end this once and for all and destroy the very fabric of their friendship.

Ronan barely manages to bite back the sharp retort on the tip of his tongue, his brain coming online at the last possible second and refusing to bow to his self-destructive tendencies. God, why is he _like_ this? Why is it his knee jerk reaction to ruin everything, even the best things, even when they’re handed to him seemingly for free? He lets out another breath and deflates slightly, simultaneously wishing that he was more drunk and that he was completely sober. “Gansey’s sloshed,” he says, because he can’t think of anything else to say and he feels like he’s losing Adam (even though Adam is not at all his to lose). “And high as shit. Not a good look on him, I’m afraid.”

Beside him, Adam snickers and rubs the bridge of his nose. “Great,” he says, that beautiful southern drawl enveloping his words once again. It isn’t lost on Ronan that Adam doesn’t repress his accent as much with him, that he lets Ronan hear all the sugar-coated syllables that he hides from the rest of the world. “Does this mean I will be designated driving y’all back to Monmouth?”

Ronan thinks again about the unopened beer a few inches to Adam’s left. Adam isn’t drinking, because Adam never drinks, because — Ronan stops himself before he can go any further down that road. There’s nothing productive down there, nothing at all except all-encompassing rage and guilt. He isn’t equipped to handle that shit when he’s sober, and he sure as shit isn’t sober right now. So he unclenches his jaw and repeats mockingly, in a high-pitched Southern belle sort of voice, “ _Y’all._ ” Adam shoves his middle finger into Ronan’s line of sight, but before he can say anything, Ronan adds quickly, “Nah, Gansey’s staying here tonight, so Czerny probably is, too. You’re off the hook.”

There’s a small pause, and then the slightest rustling sound, like Adam’s turned to look at him again. Ronan refuses to look back, just keeps tracing abstract shapes in the cluster of stars shining down on them. “And you?” Adam asks. 

“Fuck no,” says Ronan emphatically. “I’ll walk home in a bit.”

Since he isn’t looking at Adam, and he wouldn’t be able to make out his face in the empty darkness of the stupid unlit Litchfield backyard anyway, Ronan can’t be certain, but he’s pretty sure Adam frowns. Ronan can picture Adam’s frown clear as day, the way his cheeks dimple senselessly and a tiny divot appears between his thick brows. He likes Adam’s smiles better — a hundred times better, a thousand times better — but there’s something special and endearing about his frowns, too, although that may just be because Ronan is head over fucking heels for him. He pushes the thought aside just in time to hear Adam speak, his voice thick with judgment.

“You’ll walk,” Adam deadpans, and yep, Ronan’s positive that he’s frowning. “Like hell, Lynch. God, you’re a dumbass. Give me your keys.”

It’s Ronan’s turn to frown. “It’s _fine_ , Parrish,” he says forcefully, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I’ll just get the beemer tomorrow. It’s whatever.”

“It’s not whatever,” Adam immediately counters. He pushes himself into a sitting position and it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know that he’s frustrated with Ronan. “ _You_ may not give a shit about your own personal safety, but _I do_. So give me your fucking keys.” When Ronan pauses, unable to really process the words surrounding Adam’s vehement _fucking_ , Adam adds, “I’m not asking.”

Well, fuck. Ronan slides the keyring from his pocket and places it in Adam’s hand, and if his fingertips scrape Adam’s palm for a second, well, it’s dark and nobody is around to see and Ronan is really, _really_ drunk. Adam closes his fingers around the keys and then stands, offering his free hand to Ronan. Ronan takes it without thinking, allows himself to be hauled upright, and then nearly falls right back over again when he realizes just how close he is to Adam; they’re eye to eye, scant inches apart, and Ronan can feel Adam’s breath on his cheek, and Adam’s still holding onto his hand, and Jesus Christ.

It’s Adam that steps back, because it will never be Ronan. Distantly, Ronan is actually glad for Adam’s distance, because he was really one second away from doing something exceptionally stupid, like kissing Adam, and he would rather die than do that. At last, he’d rather die than do that _drunk_. A drunk kiss is a lie, Ronan’s pretty sure, and he may have perfected the art of skating around the truth but he still doesn’t fucking flat-out lie.

While Ronan is considering all of this and trying to calm his (frankly worrisome) heart rate, Adam picks up his untouched beer and Ronan’s discarded solo cup. He throws them both in an overflowing garbage can and then grabs onto Ronan’s hand and guides him back inside.

Ronan’s pretty sure that he’s short-circuiting — his mind is completely blank, except for the sound of static buzzing in his ears. Adam pulls him forward, not unkindly, and it’s all Ronan can do to follow without a fight. He registers, vaguely, that Adam’s hands are rough with callouses, not unlike how he had predicted they’d be, and they’re also dry, too, and no, that won’t do. He makes a mental note to figure out how to stealthily gift Adam some hand lotion or something. 

Near the front door, they run into Gansey, who seems to be a fraction more lucid than he was the last time Ronan saw him. Adam doesn’t drop Ronan’s hand. “You’re leaving so soon?” Gansey asks, his eyes round like god damn Puss In Boots. It almost weakens Ronan’s resolve, but Adam is nothing if not a stubborn bastard; he barely pauses.

Adam gives Gansey a good-natured smile, but there’s a sharpness to it that only Ronan notices. “It’s one in the morning, Gansey,” Adam says, which, fuck, that’s news to Ronan. “I have work in the morning, and Ronan’s too drunk to drive.” He swipes a hand through Gansey’s hair, which is such a mindless display of affection that it actually brings Ronan up short; what a long way Adam has come, from the boy shying away from fistbumps to this boy confidently ruffling his friend’s hair like it’s nothing. Ronan aches with it, and he isn’t even the one receiving Adam’s affection at the moment. Which is probably for the best, all things considered. 

Gansey sighs like he’s deeply inconvenienced, but he lets them pass anyway. “Drive safe,” he says with a sloppy two-finger salute. “I will see you both… tomorrow.”

Ronan reaches out and pushes Gansey’s glasses up the bridge of his nose as he passes, the closest he’ll come to saying, _I love you, Gans, don’t get too fucked up tonight_. He steps back into the brisk late autumn air behind Adam, who finally releases his hand, and lets the door slam behind him, then points to the curb across the street. 

“There she is,” says Ronan. They pick their way through the discarded garbage strewn across the Litchfield lawn and then Ronan steps down off the curb and immediately feels himself slipping.

It’s November — it shouldn’t be fucking icy. What the fuck? Usually he’s pretty graceful, pretty balanced, thank you very much, but it’s the middle of the fucking night and he’s drunk off his ass and he wasn’t expecting ice and yep, he’s falling, he’s gonna completely wipe out, great, he doesn’t even have time to windmill his arms like a god damn cartoon character —

Adam reaches out and places his hands on Ronan’s sides, easily steadying him.

For a second, all Ronan can do is freeze. He’s got one of Adam’s hands on his shoulder blade, just beneath his arm, and the other on his ribcage, gripping just a bit too tightly. His hold on Ronan is firm, solid, the only real thing in the world. Adam doesn’t move, either, just clears his throat and says, “You good?”

Ronan swallows, a bit harder than he means to. “I’m great, Parrish,” he says, ignoring the way the tips of his ears burn.

“I’m gonna let go of you now, okay?”

“Okay,” Ronan agrees, and then, as promised, Adam’s hands pull away, a dozen times more hesitantly than they had been when reaching out in the first place. Carefully, Ronan takes another step, and now that he’s ready he doesn’t slip. They move across the street slowly and Adam unlocks the car, and they climb into the cab in tandem, the passenger’s seat completely foreign to Ronan but made a lot less unpleasant by the fact that Adam is on the other side of the gearshift, twisting the key in the ignition and smoothing his hand over the leather upholstery of the steering wheel like he might caress a lover. Ronan has to make the deliberate decision to turn away.

Adam lets the car warm up a little bit before pulling onto the quiet street, and against his better judgment Ronan watches him as he drives, the way Adam flicks the turn signal without looking and shifts gears effortlessly. This is not the same Adam Parrish who stalled the Beemer in the Monmouth parking lot all those months ago; he’s still guarded, of course, still brilliant and ambitious, but there are a few softer edges these days. Anger that fades away rather than imploding. The occasional acceptance of a gift or favor. And this, this quiet confidence as Adam presses down on the gas and takes them ten above the speed limit on a side street just because he knows Ronan will enjoy it. 

They pull into the empty Monmouth lot a little too fast, and Ronan can’t help but grin as the sharp turn jostles him into the door. Adam puts the BMW in park and shuts it off, handing the keys to Ronan before climbing out and leaning against the car’s roof. He glances up at Monmouth’s warmly-lit window panes for a second, then blinks and turns away. “I’m gonna head out,” he says, not really looking at Ronan.

Ronan narrows his eyes. “Huh?” he says, ever so eloquent. “How are you getting home?”

Hands stuffed in his pockets, Adam shrugs ironically. “I’ll walk,” he says with a smirk, over-pronouncing the hard ‘k’ sound. “I’ll be fine. See ya, Lynch.”

“Wait. Fuck. Adam,” Ronan says, taking a step forward. “No. Fuck no. How’d you get to the party? Fuck.” 

A couple yards away, Adam pauses, clearly considering his next words. “I drove,” he says finally, like it’s the obvious answer. “You know, in my car?”

Ronan wants to scream. “Wait, so you drove to the party in your own car, and then you drove me home in the beemer, and now you’re going to do the exact thing that you didn’t let me do?”

“Pretty much,” says Adam with a slight nod. “Now that we’ve cleared that up—”

“Oh, _fuck_ no,” Ronan spits. His hands are shaking, and he’s pretty sure it has nothing to do with the cold. “No, seriously, Parrish, I’ll kick your ass if you try to walk home right now. You either take my fucking car or you stay here tonight.” When Adam opens his mouth, he’s still got that contrary look on his face, so Ronan adds, “ _I’m not fucking asking._ ”

This, out of everything, gives Adam pause. He grinds his teeth and scowls up at the single dim street light in the lot, then kicks reluctantly at a pebble near his foot. “Fine,” he says, voice hard. “I’ll stay.”

The emotional part of Ronan’s brain wants to meet Adam’s resistance with some pathetic, Gansey-like comment — _Do you really hate me that fucking much?_ he wants to snarl, teeth bared and shoulders tensed in preparation for Adam’s answering outrage — but the part of him that just wants Adam to not die tonight overpowers his worst instincts, and Ronan barely manages to hold back a barrage of taunts as Adam takes a few stiff steps in his direction.

By the time they’re up the stairs and inside Monmouth, warm, safe Monmouth, Ronan feels like he’s aged a hundred years. He still isn’t sober, not by a long shot, but there’s no enjoyable buzz under his skin anymore, either. Adam sits on the edge of the couch with his faded jacket folded up in his lap, and Ronan tosses him an old shirt and flannel pajama pants before disappearing into his room to change. He comes back through and Adam is arranging his blanket like a pillow on the arm of the couch, a sight so ridiculous that Ronan can’t help but pause in his doorway and laugh. It’s not a very kind laugh. Adam scowls at him from across the room.

“You know,” says Ronan, like he’s explaining math to a small child, “you can take Gansey’s bed. Or Noah’s. They won’t mind.”

Adam’s scowl just deepens. “It would just be weird,” he says, and he refuses to elaborate further. Exasperated, Ronan grabs a pillow and a blanket from his own bed and chucks them at Adam, who glares at him but accepts the offer without comment. He finishes arranging his makeshift bed and Ronan leans against the doorframe, eyebrow cocked, until Adam finally snaps, “What?”

“Testy, testy,” Ronan chides, shaking his head in mock disapproval. When he speaks again, his voice is more serious. “If you get up and leave once you’ve decided I’m peacefully sleeping, I’m gonna kick your ass, got it?” It’s an empty threat and they both know it, but Adam nods, still frowning. “What time do you work tomorrow?”

At that, Adam’s scowl softens slightly. “Oh,” he says, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly. “I actually don’t work till the afternoon. I was just trying to get Gansey off my back.”

Ronan lets out a bark of surprised laughter. “Good man, Parrish,” he says flippantly. “Okay, well, sleep as long as you like, help yourself to anything in the kitchen, and I’ll drive you home tomorrow. Got it?”

Adam looks like he wants to argue, but he glances away instead, fiddling with the edge of the blanket Ronan had given him. “Okay,” he relents, the fight going out of him slightly. “But for the record, I hate this.”

“ _For the record, I hate this_ ,” Ronan repeats in an exaggerated southern accent. He rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling a bit, and it diminishes the effect of irritation he was aiming for. “Yeah, I got it, Parrish. You hate me and my home and everything I stand for. Goodnight.” He turns and heads into his room, but then Adam speaks again, and Ronan pauses.

“You’re wrong, you know,” says Adam. He suddenly sounds shy, and Ronan doesn’t risk looking over his shoulder at him. “I don’t hate you.”

Ronan’s heart unclenches just a bit. “Good,” he says, and for once there’s no bite to his words. “I don’t hate you either.” And with that, he shuts his bedroom door before he can say or do anything too stupid.

(Adam doesn’t leave in the middle of the night. Ronan drives him back to St. Agnes in the morning. They’re still playing cat and mouse, but their orbits have narrowed slightly, and soon enough they’re going to collide. Ronan’s sure of it.)

**Author's Note:**

> howdy!!! i hope you liked it<3 decided to take a break from my signature late-night-drives-and-bed-sharing narratives to offer up something else very cliché and predictable! title comes from the song gorgeous by taylor swift, which this entire fic is actually (very loosely) based on! anyway, i hope y'all are doing well and staying safe! sending lots of love!!
> 
> p.s. i do not necessarily endorse ever decision made in this fic but we have all been young and dumb so <3 also adam and ronan aren't currently living in a pandemic but we are so socially distance and wear a mask!! i'm not asking!!


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